Love Stories Don't Need Titles
by Robin Purdy
Summary: Molly is new to London, her job, and talking with handsome men. She has troubles even speaking to people of the her opposite gender, and when she finally is able to string her words into sentences, she messes up royally. But then she meets Greg. Nice, funny, handsome Greg, and she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of emotions, love, and drama. Lestrade/Molly rating may change


Anyone who'd like to beta for me is welcome to ask; I am a little rusty with my British jargon.

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**Chapter 1; How To Have a Totally Awkward Conversation**

_Maybe I'm a fool, just a fool in love with you_

_I can't help myself, oh no, I can't help myself_

_-Jackson 5 (Sugar Daddy)_

I disliked my job. It had only been my first month, and I already disliked it.

It wasn't my job specifically, not really. I loved the work I did, my colleagues were all lovely, and cutting up dead bodies in a darkened room has always been a fascination of mine.

But there was this man; Sherlock Holmes, and he was a detective.

He was brilliant and intelligent and dreamy and handsome and I turned into a mouse every time I saw him. I felt so inadequate around him, like I was dumb or slow or not pretty. I knew that if I had a therapist, she'd tell me to try not to spend time with him, to avoid him. I knew it wasn't healthy, talking to him and helping him with his experiments, but he was so fascinating I just couldn't help myself. I turned out to be a very lonely 31-year-old living in the largest city in the United Kingdom.

So, every night for the only two months I had lived in London, before I went home, I stopped by a pub. I never ordered anything, except perhaps some ginger ale. I just sat and pretended that I was having fun being with people, even though I didn't talk to anyone.

Until that night.

I always sat at the first empty seat I could find at the bar. That night, I sat by this man who was looking despairingly into his mug of beer, with heavy, tired lines across his forehead. He looked middle-aged, with brown hair turning grey in some places, but very fit and well-kept. He wore nice, casually formal clothes; a brown sports jacket, a white flannel shirt, and pressed khakis.

"A ginger ale, please," I said to the bartender, feeling a little thirsty. I had spent almost all night working with no break, and I had decided that once I was done chugging it down I'd head straight to the loo.

The man next to me snorted and turned to me. "Ginger ale? Seriously?"

I shifted in my seat, my face flaming up. "What's so wrong about that?"

"What's wro-? Well, there's nothing _wrong _with it, I've just never heard of someone coming to a pub and just getting ginger ale. Maybe ginger ale with a splash of scotch or whiskey."

I didn't drink much, only for special occasions, and I had never been a fan for things as strong as scotch and whiskey. "Guess I'm a first...Glad I've made an impression on someone." It was meant to be a private, sarcastic joke, but when it came out my voice sounded terribly bitter, even to me.

"Boyfriend troubles?" he inquired as I received my glass of fizzing ginger ale.

"He's not exactly my boyfriend, but yeah, I guess you could say that." I chuckled at the irony. "What about you? Girlfriend getting you down?"

He grimaced and turned back to his beer. "Kind of."

"Oh God, you're gay, aren't you?" I felt my face turn to the heat of the sun. "I'm so, so, so sorry...I just assumed that-God, I'm sorry." Nice going there, Molls.

But he laughed. "No, you're okay...I'm not gay."

"Thank God!" I blurted and immediately realised how terrible that made me sound. "Not that being gay is bad, I've got a few friends who are gay, I just thought-I mean-I don't-" I was stumbling over my words like a newborn foal stumbles over his feet.

"I'm married," he interjected.

I didn't know why I was so shocked at his statement. Of course he was married-it was obvious now. Sherlock would have known it in a second. He was probably in his mid-forties, an age where most people have been married for at least five years. And I could see his wedding ring on the counter, right next to his half-empty mug of beer. I felt ridiculous for assuming that he _wasn't_ married. "Oh" was all I could say.

I also felt sad. Only a little bit, but still sad. I didn't know why I felt it either. Perhaps it was because he was the first man I had easily talked to for a few months who wasn't my advisor. I guess I had hoped we might have done more than chat. Maybe go on a date or two. But that was now out of the question.

"I just realized that I don't even know your name," he said suddenly, breaking me from my embarrassed thoughts.

I forced a smile. "Molly. And yours?"

"Greg. It was nice talking to you, Molly. Hope to see you again someday." The way he said my name made me squirm. It sounded so right on his tongue that it felt wrong.

"The same to you, Greg." His name seemed to be foreign yet familiar in my mouth, like a favourite food you haven't had in a while.

The moment he left, I heaved a sigh of relief. I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath. "That wasn't too bad, now was it?" I muttered to myself as I left the pub. "Hitting on a married man. Wonderful."


End file.
